


Dᴏɴ'ᴛ Mᴀᴋᴇ Mᴇ Fᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ Yᴏᴜ Iꜰ Yᴏᴜ Dᴏɴ'ᴛ Pʟᴀɴ Oɴ Cᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ Mᴇ﹒

by trashikino (Lefauxlucifer)



Category: Love Live! School Idol Festival (Video Game), Love Live! School Idol Project
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, F/F, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 19:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefauxlucifer/pseuds/trashikino
Summary: Maki's life would be byzantine enough with just her passion for composition and performance, her vibrant academic career, and her ardent aversion to being undermined weighing her down.But Yazawa Nico's precocious entrance into it doesn't exactly complicate anything.Well, not at first, that is.





	Dᴏɴ'ᴛ Mᴀᴋᴇ Mᴇ Fᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ Yᴏᴜ Iꜰ Yᴏᴜ Dᴏɴ'ᴛ Pʟᴀɴ Oɴ Cᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ Mᴇ﹒

**Author's Note:**

> I should've known that once I entered NicoMaki hell, I wouldn't be able to stop.
> 
> Alternatively titled: Sonata in F minor.

She was at the cusp of nine, and you’d just reached the tender age of four when you two first crossed paths—on an _absurdly_ mundane Tuesday night like any other. Obnoxious noises saturated the cordial atmosphere, and they wouldn’t _even_ acquiesce to being drowned out by the London Symphony’s rendition of Beethoven’s Eroica, a wondrous treat that your family’s Devialet Gold Phantom speakers could only enhance. How _insufferably_ rude.

 

 

Two raps on your titanium-frame door marked by mahogany shutters _cut_ through the ambience, neither containing a hint of subtlety, and unsurprisingly, they even had the _gall_ to be trailed by a follow-up.

 

You speculate as to just _how_ the offender passed through the gates, but moreover, you don’t want Father to _thunder_ coarsely from the office and disdainfully _glare_ at you while he unbolts the door and cordially greets the visitors.

 

So, shakily, you set the two Pentelic marble chess pieces—the Queen and a pawn— _gripped_ stringently in your sinewy hands back into their respective place on the plexiglass chessboard, and rise on your stumpy yet slender legs, planting your feet firmly on the ground—as if to accentuate your elevated stature and remarkable prowess.

 

You _wearily_ trek to the entryway, leisurely yet deliberately, while smoothing out your sky-blue satin dress with a single bow, so that when you reach, there’s not a doubt in this _idiot’s_ mind that you are every bit the Nishikino heiress the public paints you as. Though you’ve barely exceeded fifteen-hundred days upon the Earth, you can read in two languages, write simple coherent decrees, and you spoke your first full sentence when you were just under a year old.

 

You’re a prodigy, no less—one’s that’s _decidedly_ aware of their surroundings and who’d rather not have _their_ evening interrupted by some _Girl Scout_ or door-to-door salesman.

 

But nevertheless, you _trudge_ up to the entrance, and for the first time in your childhood, being in the 99th percentile of your age group in the height category _actually_ carries relevance.

 

Ardently, you force your fingers to nimbly _flip_ the three locks and access the fingerprint scanner, and you manage to live through a retinal imaging, and somehow, as if by _sheer_ miracle, you manage to pry the door open via exerting every ounce of your meagre strength.

 

In hindsight, _that_ was an _appallingly_ abysmal idea and you’d rather not admit that _you'd_ conceived it, because that lands you _smack-dab_ behind the door, and now, you have a _minor_ headache—the most discomfort you’ve ever felt in your four years of an _utterly_ posh existence—, and a complete stranger is _carelessly_ waltzing into your prestigious estate, and though the first set of footsteps is _downright_ unrecognizable, the second pair of footsteps is _entirely_ all-too-distinguishable.

 

_Father._

 

This girl—you _impulsively_ assume that the eerie, disturbingly high-pitched voice is female, because if it wasn’t. . .your logic’s been defiled enough for twenty-four hours— _apparently_ lacks the common courtesy to shut the _damn_ door behind her, which results in your eyes conferencing with a pair of well-tailored Brunello Cucinelli pants, a sight you’re not _unfamiliar_ with, for a variety of reasons—and not _once_ has it proven to be a pleasurable experience.

 

❝ Ah. _Daughter_ , ❞ he remarks, ❝ thought Maria would’ve put you to bed by now. ❞

 

It’s a rational but _impersonal_ statement—you routinely retire after seven, and awaken at half-past eight—, and yet you can’t _help_ but be disheartened at the _nonexistence_ of familial appeal in his speech.

 

❝ You must be the neighbors, no?

 

Welcome to my _humble_ abode. Truly, we’re delighted you could make it. ❞

 

You detect a _distinct_ sense of prodigious tenderness in his tone that he’s never once _bothered_ to bequeath to you—though it’s one-thousand percent _insincere_. To him, these people are nothing but a _charity_ case, a passing fancy that’ll endorse the Nishikino family name at a _marginal_ cost.

 

You’ve heard all about them—the four who’d recently lost their mother in a _tragic_ vehicle accident, in which _your_ aunt, an aged bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and _your_ father’s Mercedes-Benz AMG S 63 Sedan had no part _whatsoever_ —for weeks, now, understood how legally, the Nishikinos were _acquiring_ four children, how _generous_ and _benevolent_ of a _man_ your father was, and how _exceedingly_ lucky you were to be born into a lineage of such _honor_ and _integrity_. 

 

The shack at the edge of your mansion—which could _easily_ rival the size of a typical home for a family of eight—would _kindly_ act as their dwelling, though they were free to visit at any hour of the day.

 

Their tuition would be paid in full, their meals prepared by the Nishikino family chef, and they’d never have a worry or care of their own, so long as they lived—so long as they held in highest respects those who _enriched_ and _augmented_ their lives.

 

And that—that _sickened_ your developing mind.

 

But _that_ wasn’t the problem, no, the _crisis_ at present was that a _colossal_ figure with _demonic_ eyes and a hairstyle from the 1890s drew closer to you by the second, arms _eagerly_ outstretched as wide as the kitchen table, smile as _radiant_ as the morning sun in the East.

 

And _without_ so much as a warning, you’re swept up—briskly, vigorously—, and _coddled_ in her arms as if you were a newborn.

 

❝ Set me down, ❞ you _tolerantly_ assert, with every ounce of the poise and dignity that befits an entity of your stature. ❝ Gently, if you please, ❞ you add, as a necessary afterthought—you’re at her mercy, after all. Couldn’t hurt your case to be _vaguely_ polite.

 

❝ Ah-ah-ah, you didn’t say when, Nico, ❞ she posits, _whimsically_ , and grins from ear-to-ear. Ugh, what you would give to _wipe_ that smile cleanly off her face.

 

And so, you _do_.

 

Or at least, you _try_. With a well-meant blow to her left cheek.

 

Except she just _laughs_ that off and _twinkles_ at you, syncing her devilish scarlet irises with your own lavender eyes.

 

❝ Maki-chan, was it, _Nico_? ❞ she inquires, and though you haven’t mentioned your identity, _anybody_ with a positive IQ couldn’t not know who you are.

 

Which isn’t to say that this girl seems intelligent; rather, you mean to convey the exact _opposite_ —she hasn’t even _bothered_ to address you with the _proper_ honorifics—, and you’re on the verge of doing just so when she has the _audacity_ to interrupt you and introduce herself.

 

❝ Suppose it isn’t fair if _I_ know you, and you don’t know me, _Nico_. Yazawa Nico, at your service!

 

But don’t fret over the formalities. Just call me Nico, kay? ❞

 

You _immediately_ make a mental note of that name, so that you don’t fumble for words when you’re old enough to ring up a hitman.

 

But afterwards, you try to pronounce it, in lieu of simply smiling and nodding—like you do to get all the other grown-ups off your back—, and that’s when _everything_ goes downhill.

 

❝ Ya. . .za. . .wa-san? ❞ you articulate in a quizzical tone.

 

❝Ni-co, ❞ she _coos_ back, softly, fondly.

 

❝ Yazawa-san, ❞ you reply, _unwilling_ to deviate from your staunchly-kept traditions.

 

❝ Maki-chan, ❞ she starts, _tsk-tsk_ -ing once or twice in between, ❝ at this rate, you’ll stay in my arms _forever_.

 

Not that the great Nico-Nico-niiii~ would mind. . . ❞

 

❝ Set me down this instant, Nico-chan—else I’ll never forgive you, ❞ you vehemently demand and aggressively threaten, and yet, even that doesn’t get you your heart’s desire—which is a first, for a _princess_ like you, who’s not _once_ been refused. Who does Nico think she is, to _deny_ you, of all people?

 

Ugh. You _swear_ that if your feet don’t touch the ground in three-point-two seconds, you’ll devote a good two days of your career to ensuring that her life is positively _miserable_.

   
❝ Maki-chan's so coldddddd. Good thing summer's coming up. We can save money on air conditioning~ ❞

And then, as if she hasn’t overstepped her bounds already, she has the _cheek_ to go and do the unexpected to four-year-old you—she _jerks_ you closer to her heart and holds you so tight you don’t believe you can even _breathe_ , and then, she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, and her arms are so thin, and yet, the sleeves of her rose-pink cardigan appear to be the _warmest_ place on Earth, and her behavior is _absolutely_ unacceptable, until you realize that this moment, right here and now, is the most affection you’ve ever received from anyone—mother, father, and Maria included.

 

And that—that almost makes you tear up, but it’s perfectly fine; there was just. . . something in your eye, happens to the best of us, right?

 

You don’t even _hesitate_ as you attempt to wrap your own arms around her and nuzzle closer, and that—that almost makes you believe that this arrangement. . .may not be so cruelly vindictive, after all.

 

<p _p >_

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this idea yesterday morning, and somehow, I conjured up the time to pen and edit this (by not sleeping. . .),,,
> 
> couple notes: Maki and Nico are five years apart in this AU. Nico could be viewed as Maki's pseudo-older sister—but they're not related by blood, and the Yazawas simply enjoy being under the Nishikino veil. I could say more, but, uh, spoilers.
> 
> usually, these'll be written in both perspectives, but writing Nico's POV for this one would ruin things for later chapters, annnnnnnd moreover, I'm lazy.
> 
> first time writing in 2nd person sooooooo it's probably rough; lemme know if anything in particular stands out to you(?)
> 
> as usual, I'll answer those comments, so leave one if you had a particular thought to offer on this?
> 
> I hope my tag game got better.


End file.
